


Geeks of the Jeffersonian: Part 1

by Elfwreck



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Gaming, Geeky, Gen, Hobbies, fandom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-13
Updated: 2011-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-15 14:59:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfwreck/pseuds/Elfwreck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>3 vignettes: Hodgins' first scientific research paper; Zack gets obsessive about cars; Angela needs to see more naked men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hodgins in the Dungeon Tomb of Zek-nara

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by Flamewarrior; many thanks!

Hodgins was a gamer. He played D&D in the library after school, like the other geek boys, alternating between brutish thugs and clever magicians. In the game, he had the power and respect that real life withheld from him. When someone bullied him in the game, he could say, "I rip his arms off." Or, "I zap him with lightning." And everyone would react _just like it really happened._ He didn't have to say, "I'll call my father and he'll sue your ass," which was such a wimp-out way to deal with your problems.

*~*~*

So there they were, the six of them, marching single-file through the Dungeon Tomb of Zek-nara the Witch Queen. Jack, playing Thannelorn the elven fighter-mage, was leading the party to find the long-lost Crown and Scepter of the Sharvel Empire, missing for a hundred years. They'd already killed three dozen orcs (one of whom was carrying a +2 dagger) and four ogres led by a frost giant (Gauntlets of Dexterity—woot!), and a pack of zombies that had been guarding a bookshelf, which turned out to hold half a dozen of Zek-nara's most powerful scrolls of spells.

Andy, the Dungeon Master, rolls some dice.

"As you travel down the narrow corridor, you see the floor ahead looks slippery."

"I get close to the slippery patch, but don't step on it. I bring my lantern in for a closer look."

"It's wet and green. In fact, the walls are wet and green as well."

"Green wet walls? Like paint?"

"No, like…" Andy flips through his dungeon book, checks what's written next to the map. "Like algae. It looks like a wet moss."

"Moss? Green? In a dungeon? Four levels below the surface? In the dark?" Jack doesn't know much about algae, but he knows it needs two things: water, and sunlight. In fact, that's about all it needs.

"Well, it's not moss. It's _like_ moss. Only wetter. Gloopier."

"Gloopier? You can't get much more gloopy than algae."

"More like Jell-o."

"Jell-o."

"Yes, like Jell-o. Quit arguing, Jack; that's what the module says is here. What do you do?"

"I taste it."

"You taste it."

"Yeah, I bend down, get a bit on my fingers, and find out if it tastes like jell-o too."

Andy gets a sadistic grin on his face as he rolls some more dice. "It burns your fingers and your tongue. Take five points of damage, and you'll be at a -2 with weapons in that hand, and you won't be able to taste anything until you can get to a healer."

"WHAT?"

"It's like it's made of acid."

"ACID MOSS?"

"Yeah. It's called Green Slime."

"MOSS IS NOT ACID!"

"This moss is. Maybe it's magic."

Tara chimes in. "I cast Detect Magic on the moss."

"You don't detect any magic."

Jack is furious. "If it's not magic, how is it acid? MOSS CAN'T BE ACID!"

"This moss is acid. Besides, it's not moss; it's slime. The green color is, umm… camouflage. To convince surface-dwellers to think it's safe."

"HOW MANY SURFACE DWELLERS DOES LEVEL FOUR OF THIS DUNGEON GET? I THOUGHT IT'D BEEN ABANDONED FOR DECADES!"

"Jack, it's _just a game._ Take your damn five points of damage already, and shut up."

Jack shuts up. He marks five points off his character sheet. He finishes out the game in a pissy mood. He knows he's being a jerk, but he can't help it. Moss is not acid. Algae doesn't eat away your fingers.

He spends the rest of the week in the _other_ part of the library, the part with books, researching algae, and comes to the next game with four pages of semi-legible writing with sketches in the corner, ready to explain how there is _no way in hell_ algae can contain enough toxins of a type that can burn people, especially not if it's green.

Nobody cares. They're very close to the hidden throne room with Scepter of the Emperor, and nobody else even remembers that Lord Thannelorn nearly lost his fingers to plant goo.

Later, in other dungeons, he discovers Gray Ooze, Yellow Mold, and Gelatinous Cubes. But nothing ever quite matches the shock and wonder of that first encounter with Green Slime.


	2. Zack and the Interlocking Parts

Zack was never social enough for D&D. He saw them, the gamer kids who met in the library, and he wanted what they had—a world of their own, where you knew the rules and everybody had a purpose, and success was rewarded with numbers (not grades, arbitrary vague labels based on how well you pleased the teacher, not how well you completed the assignment according to the instructions) and failure was measured in points, so you knew how to avoid it next time. But playing D&D involved talking with other kids, and Zack was never good at that.

Zack was good at _things_ , not people.

*~*~*

His uncle bought him a plastic model car. "Here you go, boy. It's a '57 Chevy convertible—a classic! Every kid should have a classic car!"

Zack thanked him, as he'd been taught, and dutifully put the box in his room, where he ignored it for a month, until a rainy Saturday afternoon when he couldn't get to the library.

 _37 Interlocking Parts!_ it said on the box. _No glue required!_ He opened it. Inside were a jumble of car-shell-shaped pieces, a couple of sprues with tiny pieces to be snapped off, a six-inch square of stickers and decals, and a folded piece of paper with diagrams and instructions.

He set the paper aside (he'd long since realized that most toys' instructions made little sense to him), and carefully laid out all the pieces on his dresser. He counted them. There were indeed 37 of them, if you included the pins in the middle of the wheels, which Zack thought might be cheating. He shrugged, and started to put pieces together.

*~*~*

Over the next four months, through the end of the school year and into summer, Zack had built a dozen cars. He'd've built more, but he couldn't afford them. And his room was getting cluttered. He had no idea what to do with them when they were finished; he had no interest in the cars themselves. He sought out the most complex models, the ones with lots of different kinds of pieces and a free bottle of Krazy Glue. (He'd learned it was properly called cyanoacrylate, and it was a lot cheaper to buy in four-ounce bottles, but a lot of the models had a quarter-ounce bottle included.)

He'd become a connoisseur of model cars. He could tell the difference between die-cast and laser-cut pieces from a photograph, and he knew which companies used which. He bought Exacto blades and tweezers and wire cutters. He liked the ones with different media—some plastic, some metal, rubber wheels. He liked the ones with moving parts—doors that opened, steering wheels that turned—but not because he cared if they moved; it was just that those had more variety and more pieces.

He tried jigsaw puzzles, which had thousands of pieces, but they were… too flat. All the same kind of piece. And besides, they took too much table space.

His family, of course, noticed his new obsession, and encouraged it. His mother thought he might grow up to be a mechanic, which might not be the most ambitious profession, but was at least respectable. His father was just happy he was finally showing an interest in something normal. His grandmother gave him $50 on his birthday and told him it was to get "the best car he could find."

He found one. A Tamiya 1/12 scale 929 RSR Porsche, with "pneumatic rubber-like tires" and metal parts for the engine and other internals. It cost more than $50, but he had birthday money from other relatives, plus his allowance. It said "not a toy" on the box, even though it also said "for ages 10 and up." It was unpainted, and he bought paints, but he wasn't sure he'd bother with that part. Painting wasn't putting things together.

On the way home from the hobby store, he ran into Tommy Dorsey. Or rather, Tommy Dorsey found him as he got off the bus in front of the library. Tommy Dorsey was two years older than Zack, twenty pounds heavier, and mean.

"Whatcha got there, Zack?"

"Nothing." He fought the impulse to put the bag behind his back. Tommy had already seen it.

"Doesn't look like nothin'."

"Nothing of interest to you."

"Oh, I'm interested. What's in the bag?"

"A car," Zack mumbled.

"What's that? I can't hear you, geek-boy."

"It's… it's a kit for a model car."

"Since when do geeks get cars?"

That question was so illogical, Zack tried to ignore it and just keep walking. Zack didn't have a car; he had a model kit. And being a geek had nothing to do with one's ability to own a car, anyway.

Tommy ran up to him and grabbed the bag out of his hand. He skipped out of Zack's reach as he peered inside.

"A Porsche? You don't deserve a Porsche!"

Again, less than logical. He'd bought it, therefore he deserved it. "Give that back. It's mine."

"Not any more. Finders, keepers!"

"You didn't find it. You took it from me. Now give it back."

"Gonna make me, geek?" Tommy held the bag out, just shorter than arm's length, in a way that indicated he'd pull it back if Zack moved toward it.

Zack narrowed his eyes, frowning, as he stood in impotent frustration. Not knowing what else to do, he stepped forward.

Tommy stepped back.

Zack lunged at him, grabbing wildly at the bag. Tommy stepped back again, twisting the bag away from Zack… and tripped on the edge of the sidewalk, falling to the grass. Falling right on top of the box. They both heard the horrible crunch of plastic parts being splintered, of metal being crushed against metal.

Tommy stood, stared down at the crumpled heap… and ran.

Zack picked up his bag and slowly walked home, trying not to cry. When he got to his room, he carefully took the pieces out of the bag.

Five colored paints, in small glass jars with high structural integrity, intact. One bottle cyanoacrylate, also intact. One crushed box of car parts. Sighing, he cut the plastic off, unbent the cardboard as much as he could, and opened the box.

His car was in shards. The chassis had been broken into several pieces; the metal parts smashed together, the sprues bent out of shape. The only pieces unaffected were the "rubber-like" tires.

He took those out first and set them aside, in the spot where he normally put completed sections.

He took out the windows next, because clear plastic was easiest to find in the mix. He counted the pieces. Seventeen. Seventeen clear plastic pieces (plus whatever shards were still in the box) for what had been six windows. He poked at them with his finger. One of the larger pieces was obviously the front windshield; he set that off to the side. One of the rear side windows was intact, he set it next to the front windshield piece. He spotted the other main part of the front windshield, and put them together. They met at the top, but there was a triangular gap that covered the middle third of the bottom. There were no triangular pieces that size. But there was one with a straight edge on one side, that matched the angle of the triangle on another, so he put that between them. Now he was looking for a rectangular (ish) piece to fill the remaining gap. He found it, but there were some small slivers missing. He dug through the box to find them.

He carefully pushed the pieces of the windshield together, four pieces thumb-sized or larger plus two splinters. He looked at it. Frowned. Reached for the glue, which he applied in very tiny drops to the edges. When it dried, he picked up his windshield. It wasn't entirely whole—he could still see a couple of chips missing where the pieces had broken—but it'd fit when he got the rest of the car together.

He reached into the box for the chassis pieces.

It took him more than two weeks to build the car. He only left his room for meals, and didn't leave the house at all. He burned his hand on a lighter, trying to soften the metal pieces to reshape them, before he decided to use a pair of pliers as a small hammer. He decided he needed a drill and a set of files, but was too engrossed in the work to get them for this project.

When he finished the car, it had obvious seams in several places on the body, and the windows were probably the worst-looking part because he hadn't yet learned the trick of applying CA near-invisibly, and one tire was bent to the inside because he couldn't fix the axel, but it was complete. All the parts were included, and most of the supposedly-moving parts moved. The hood didn't latch closed, but it did close. Mostly. He showed it to his mother. She was shocked.

"Zack, honey, why is it all broken?"

That wasn't the reaction he'd hoped for. He'd worked hard on this model, harder than for any of the others, and she'd always been very affectionate after he finished a model. This time, she just looked worried.

"It's not broken. I've fixed it."

"But… it _was_ all broken. You shouldn't have to buy a broken model."

"It wasn't broken when I bought it."

"How did it get broken, then?"

"Tommy Dorsey landed on it." The conversation had become surreal. It didn't matter how the car had gotten to whatever state it started in; the point was, this one had _hundreds_ more parts than any of the others, and no diagram showing how to assemble them, and he'd still managed to put it together. He'd expected approval. And perhaps cookies. When he'd finished the model of the racing car that she said looked "just like your uncle Dave used to drive," she baked cookies. This was much more complex than that model.

"Tommy Dorsey?" she said. "How did he land on it?"

Zack told her. Bus stop, library, grabbed the bag, fell, model went splat. But it's okay, mom, I fixed it. The explanation didn't help. She was still frowning. He did not get cookies, although she didn't seem angry with him.

The next day, he was reading a book when he heard a knock at the door, and the next thing he knew, Tommy Dorsey was in his room. He looked embarrassed and unhappy, and his mother, standing over Tommy's shoulder, looked angry and expectant. Tommy glanced up at her, gulped, and said, "I'm sorry I broke your car."

Zack shrugged. "It's okay," he said. "I fixed it."

"You did?"

Zack pointed at the dresser where the completed car was placed. He'd've put it on a shelf, but his shelves were full of other cars, crammed into the spaces around the books. Tommy took a step forward without thinking, and then stopped. "Can I… can I see it."

"Sure." Zack handed him the completed Porsche.

"Wow!" Tommy's gasp of amazement was even better than his mother's approval, which always had undertones of patronizing indulgence. Tommy was looking at the car, really looking, in a way that no adult ever had looked at any of his models. "That's incredible!"

"It was quite difficult," Zack agreed.

Tommy started opening and closing the doors, spun the steering wheel, and checked under the hood. "You even fixed the engine!"

Zack's mother, having ascertained that the boys weren't likely to attempt to kill each other, closed the door and went back to the kitchen. An hour later, the boys came out of the room. Tommy was carrying a plastic grocery bag full of model cars.

"Zack?" she said. "What's with… that?" She pointed at the bag.

"Tommy would like those cars, so I'm giving them to him."

"But they're your cars."

"Yes. But I'm done with them now."

She stared at him, with that expectant look that meant this wasn't an acceptable state of affairs. He pondered how to make this seem reasonable to her.

"It's alright," he said. "We're trading."

"Trading?"

"Yes. Tommy's father is a doctor, and he gave Tommy a hundred-piece skeleton kit that he doesn't want to put together, so he's giving it to me."

"Well… alright then. As long as it's a fair trade."


	3. Angela Visits the Comic Store

Angela was too cool for D&D, and most of her interest in cars was centered around the back seat. Angela was an _artist_. And artists study other artists.

Angela bought a dozen comic books every other month or so. She didn't subscribe to any of them; she wanted to see different artists' work, not read about the exploits of SuperEgo and his sidekick Mini Id. That is, until her first visit to the comic store after her eighteenth birthday. She'd been waiting for this—for the ability to go into the RESTRICTED: ADULTS ONLY section where they kept… well, she didn't know. But she was eighteen years and two months old, and she was going to find out.

 _Heavy Metal_ was there, having been banished after a round of local parents' complaints. She'd heard of it, but never found it for sale in any comic store she'd been to, so she picked it up. She looked at the shelf full of _Cherry Poptart_ and later issues named _Cherry_ , and picked up the first three issues. XXXenophile looked… interesting, but she passed on it; she was already familiar with Phil Foglio's artwork.

Then she noticed a rack labeled FANZINES, which was written on an index card in black sharpie. _Coming Out In Metropolis_ had a rainbow over the title, and a picture of Superman in a rainbowed version of his suit. Angela was fascinated. She opened it to find a list of stories and artwork.

"Saving Jimmy" had a summary that said, _When the aliens take a hostage to assure Superman won't interfere with their plans, everyone is surprised by their choice._

"Superman's Other Secret Identity" was artwork; it pictured Superman wearing a black domino mask, wearing a leather harness and g-string pouch with a zipper.

"The Price of Anonymity" said, _Perry White catches Clark leaving the cloakroom. Thinking Kent is shirking his job, he demands a reason to keep him on the payroll. Warning: consent issues._

"Anticipation" depicted Superman, naked, bound to an x-shaped rack with glowing handcuffs and ankle cuffs, with a gleeful Lex Luthor standing next to a shelf of glowing items: nipple clamps, a small whip, and a frighteningly large dildo.

Angela shoved the 'zine into the middle of the handful of comics she'd picked up. She managed not to blush as she made her purchases, but she was certain the bored-looking teenage girl at the counter noticed how nervous she was. She almost ran home. She did run up to her room, and quickly pulled out the 'zine again.

She took a breath.

 _Artwork_ , she told herself. _I got this to … study different artists' interpretations of a known character._

She knew she was lying. She didn't care.

Within two weeks, she was drawing her own pictures of Superman. Over the next couple of months, as she studied the other comics she'd bought this time, she considered the characters in a new light. She drew Robin kneeling in front of Batman, who had his head thrown back in ecstasy. She drew Wolverine in French maid's uniform. That was just silly, and demeaning, and she felt almost guilty, so she drew him standing, naked and erect, hands crossed on top of his head, head tilted with a rakish smile. That was an interesting pose, so she drew Superman in the same position—taller, thinner at the waist, less hairy.

She noticed that all her erect penises looked alike. She decided this was because she'd only seen a few in real life, and obviously, this detriment to her artistic career could not be allowed to stand.

She slept with seven men that summer. She very carefully did not tell any of them they were artistic research, although she did give sketches to three of them. One of those sketches, redone with a different face, became the centerfold art for _Stark Naked Dreams_ , an Iron Man 'zine with a print run of over 75 copies.

Angela decided that, if she couldn't find a career as a police artist or drawing portraits for wealthy dowagers, she could always illustrate porn magazines for a living.


End file.
